Mahikashi
by BooLoo2
Summary: Sometimes, in fear and in doubt, we destroy the hope of a future. Now, after so many vorns of suffering and discrimination, can the surviving carriers forgive and offer new hope to the fading cybertronian race? Warnings inside. Multiple Pairings. Slash!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Don't own Transformers…**

**Warnings:** Unbated. Discrimination against a minority, mentions of detailed deaths, disturbing images and dark themes. Angsty. Slash.

**AN:** This is a story that is in my 'Oneshots, Kinks, and Ideas' (OKI) story and due to the reviews of some of it's readers I've decided to start up it's own, individual sector since I've found myself writing on it more and more. Please enjoy, and if you've already read this in OKI, I hope still find some pleasure in reading through the first chapters a second time. (**Edited…**)

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><p><strong>Mahikashi<strong>

**-Prologue-**

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><p><em>In the Golden Age of Cybertron, before the civil war that would split the race in two and destroy their planet, peace reined and prosperity came to those born to its right. For a time all seemed right in the optics of the people. The masses were fed their daily energon and the fractured corners of their world were covered in a veil of shadow. Their optics looked to the light of their rising cities and the practiced smiles of their leaders.<em>

_The dockworker unloaded the cargo of his employer and returned to his family with his hard earned credits, the employer sold his cargo to the businesses of the growing cities and returned to his own with his subspace lined, the businesses sold their wares to the citizens who would then give praise to their leaders for their wealth, and the leaders would look upon the people and smile for they knew they need not touch the hands of the many to be their masters._

_On and on the lives of the masses went, consuming all that would be brought before them as their five-ringed masters drunk from the golden goblet of power, brimming with the endless roar of cheers and cries of the people. But as with any who would greedily feast upon its bounties and drink from the well of privilege, sloth, indulgence, and power drunkenness seeped into the very core of cybertronian culture. In time they wanted more than they were given, when there was so little left to be had._

_The great cities, swollen and humming with unease, began to become aflame as scores of its mobbing citizens took to the streets demanding more than what they had. The masters, hidden within their towers and engorged from the feasts they had for so long privileged those born to the right, had nothing to give when they themselves had yet to have their fill. They too, wanted more then their planet could offer._

_The masses were many, the masters few, and in the many vorns to follow those born to privilege would look upon the many with fear and repulsion for their hostile ways and those born to the masses would looked upon the few with fear and anger for the power they held. The gap between people and masters widened and the voices became lost to the vast abyss that lay before them. They could only see into the lives of the other, for all sound beyond their barrier was quiet to them. Rebellion was brewing._

_A dieing planet, a starving people, and leaders who could no longer speak the language of the masses; all could feel it in the air, the stillness and the tension. Time was slipping by and the gap was growing wider. The leaders had nothing to give that they had not already taken and the masses had nothing to take then what was not already gone. Tensions had to be settled, the gap had to be bridged before the entirety of the race split in two under the weight of a corrupted world, corroded from the vary foundations that formed it._

_Then, when uprising seemed all but inevitable, a…solution was found._

_Primus was bestowing punishment, the priests of the high temples would call out to the masses. They spoke of the Allspark being tainted by the insidious acts of the few who had turned their backs on the very One who'd created them and then callously sought to claim entitlement to His wondrous works by bringing forth tainted life into their cities, their world. They spoke of the few not as children of Primus, but as the bringers of Unicron; children of the Unmaker who sought to destroy their peace and spread chaos and war throughout the whole of Cybertron. And as the masses were ought to do in times of great distress, they believed._

_In the name of Primus, of Cybertron, of all cybertronians, the few were slaughtered, their hands bound and spark chambers ripped open for the scrutiny of the priests and masses before they were tossed to the pits, returned to the very depths of fiery oblivion the priests had so feverishly spoken of. And the masses would cheer as the metal would peel from the very bodies of their captives, the roar of the many blocking out the anguished cries and screams of the few as the many drunk their energon and praised their leaders for their guidance, as it was meant to be._

_In the name of Primus, of Cybertron, of all cybertronians, the creations of the few were ripped from the very spark chambers of their creators and forced into a frame of metal forged from the remnants of the few long since thrown to the pits, coverless, to reveal their tainted spark to all. Then the young life would be cleansed, baptized in great barrels of acid that slowly corroded their frames to nothing as their sparks dissolved. Their wails of pain and panic, confusion and fear, would pull a mighty cheer from the gathered masses as the priests would pull the young one back under the cleansing acids to complete the purification again and again. And when the decontamination was complete the empty, mutilated shells of the newborns would be placed at the temple steps to appease their great Primus, as testament that their tainted sparks would never make it to the Allspark._

_For vorns the masses hunted the few in hopes of appeasing their Primus, in hopes of reviving their slowly dieing planet with the spilt energon of the tainted. Even a whisper as to the identity of one of the hunted was enough to rally the masses into frenzy, sending the planet into a time of darkness where brother turned against brother and suspicion was in the sparks of all. Many were accused of association with the few and many more were killed in the name of peace. There were few who did not agree with the mass's idea of tainted sparks destroying their world, but there were fewer still who spoke out against it and fewer still that did survive._

_The few: those who were capable of creating life, or as the priests had proclaimed, a perversion of life, from within their very spark chambers. To give new life that was not of the Allspark, as the priests would say, was a sick distortion of the natural order._

_The few were given a name, one that would follow them far into the future, even as the masses fell into a civil war that would forever destroy their home planet despite their leader's efforts to prevent it. Tainted Ones, Bringers of Unicron, Infection, Children of Discord, The Plague, all titles labeled upon them since the beginning of the Hunts, but ironically, it would be the very name they'd given themselves that would forever remain in the minds of those who'd lived long enough to remember the days of the Hunts. They were called Mahikashi: The Damned._

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><p>From deep within the confines of an uncharted ship, lost within the vastness of the farthest reaches of the universe, smoothly floating through the infinite void of space, a voice rose, ringing through the hollow belly of the ship, echoing into the silence.<p>

"We are not of the people, for they will not have us! We are not children of Primus, for He will not have us either! We are known to them as the Infection of Cybertron, Bringers of Unicron himself, Children of Chaos, A Virus, filthy, unworthy, tainted; we are the means by which they have kept their peace, and now that the spilling of our energon can not longer keep that peace, we are forgotten and tossed aside."

A quiet keen of anguish was heard in the silence of the ship's hull, followed by an uproar of indignant cries from the bots gathered together in their small vessel.

The speaker raised a single hand, and all was quiet again. "Yes. We have been tossed aside, used ruthlessly so that those with power may keep it, and those without power may obtain it for what little time they could. But why should this bother us? Is it not the first time we have been used, abused, killed, and tossed aside when they deem we have _served_ our _purpose_?" Deliberate pause. "They are not of us, and we are not of them. They are cybertronians, children of Primus, and we…we are Mahikashi! He is not our God, for we are not of him, but as we always have, we will survive! We are Mahikashi!"

A roar of approval flooded the ship, echoed off every wall and crowded every corner. The endless cheers made deaf the audio receptors of those in the hull, but still they cheered louder as the joy overtook them. The war had begun, and with it they could look to a future where they would be able to live out their lives in peace, forever forgotten by the very people they had once, very long ago, called their own.

Tossed aside after their spilt Energon could no longer appease the cybertronian God, forgotten as the war consumed the planet, they'd escaped into the farthest reaches of space, away from the fighting. Now they were free, out of reach of the very people who had sough to annihilated them for so long: they, the Mahikashi.

However, they were not as forgotten as they believed.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> For those who've been reading this story in OKI and have chosen to also write about the same material, please do not hesitate to write and post them up. I see as a sharing center for ideas and lolz, so as long as it is not a 'cut and paste' duplicate of my own; I encourage others to explore any ideas I may bring into the fandom as they will. Good luck!

**Please review…**


	2. Sins of thy Father

**Disclaimer: Don't own Transformers…**

**Warnings:** Unbated. Discrimination against a minority, mentions of detailed deaths, disturbing images and dark themes. Angsty.

**AN:** Thank you **Fliara48**, **Ladyofthedrgns**, and **Osteria** for reviewing, it is very much appreciated and it just makes my day when I look in my email box and find something that doesn't cause my hair to gray before its time. Thank you all so much! Please kick back, feel free to grab your hankies if you happen to be sensitive to sad topics, and enjoy. (**Edited…**)

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><p><strong>Mahikashi<strong>

**-Ch 1: Sins of thy Father-**

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><p><em>The vorns have passed and the memories of those long forgotten now stir within the consciousness of a people who once more look to their leaders for hope, a hope that cannot be so easily given in fear that the many shall see deception in words that may never be. It is a tense time, as it has always been, the weight of the many's voices crying out for guidance from an unknown enemy. But now there are no enemies in this conflict but the ones within, and the voices of the masters remain silent.<em>

_The war is over, ended by the thrusting of a blade and the stroke of a signature signed in energon upon cool metal, a dark chapter in the history of a people seeped so intimately in war passed by like a dream long since spoiled by the dawning of awareness, the opening of weary optics to a world that had once been their own. Gone._

_The whispers are more deafening than the mightiest battle cry, a flicker of doubt in the optics of one more menacing than the cold stares of all. The enemy is gone, replaced by whispered doubts sparked from the stillness peace brings, passed from glossa to glossa with a growing unease. A beast set free by war and caged by peace, growing ever restless, prowling the cages edges with sharp, narrowed optics._

_The Allspark had been destroyed during the great struggles of the war, forever lost to the cybertronians- perhaps as Primus's last punishment upon his children. But the people may never know for the priests are no more and the One has grown silent to even their Prime. It is uncertain if the blessed race will ever again win the favor of Primus, but the many will continue to fall to their knees, bare their necks in surrender, and beg for deliverance as they always have. But still, their God does not answer._

_They are a dieing race, a race abandoned by their God, a race that has destroyed all that had been gifted to them in the pursuit of power and the feel of a golden goblet in their grasp. The people cry out in distress, seeking small hands and faces that will never be, the warmth of a young one against their spark casings: new life to fill the void of old tragedies._

_The people have become desperate, their patience wearing thin in the growing turmoil of festering hope, and the masters know they must act. Once more their world is thrown into darkness, leaving the optics of many shifty and the sparks of many more sweeping. They seek a light that may never come, a light they had never acknowledged until it was snuffed out by their own hand._

_They had damned themselves._

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><p>Booming voices and harsh tones overwhelmed the wide spaces of the council floor, seeming to set ablaze the atmosphere as tempers mount and frantic debate turned to heated confrontation. There is much said in those tense times yet very little heard, and even those with the loudest voices are drowned out in the chaos. The call for silence goes unheard by the gathered bots vying for their share of influence, the shrill ring from a shock call little more than white noise to their audio receptors and the pulsing of energon rushing through their lines.<p>

The weary optics of those who've held their silence throughout flicker subdued glances to their Prime, a strange glint of something understood only in processor passing through their seemingly listless gazes. There is something to be said about how much can be communicated amongst old companions with the mere nod of a helm or the flicker of tight lips upon familiar faceplates. It is an understanding few shall ever know.

The Prime sighs silently to avoid being heard by the tempered councilmen, his optics dimming in a growing frustration. Taking one last weeping glance across the room he comes to an gradual stand, frame raised magnificently above his subjects, seeming to cast those before him in shadow though not a single shade of such is evident upon their frames. The room falls silent.

One last observation of the mechs before him and the Prime speaks. "My fellow councilmen, I am not ignorant of the unrest among my people and I understand your concern. However, I am inclined to calmly offer my opinion in the way you have chosen to handle these state of affairs-"

"He means you're wasting his time with your pointless squabbling." The Prime's head medic chose to step in at that moment, icy blue optics narrow and arms firmly crossed, his own ire having been on the exponential increase throughout the entirety of the meeting, if it could be rightfully called that.

After an astrosecond or so of staring helplessly towards the ever-blunt Ratchet, Optimus finally managed to speak. "Well, yes- in so many words." The Prime cleared his intakes, turning his attention back to the either aghast or mortified councilmen. "I have heard your concerns." He continued on steadfastly, back straight and chassis held steady. "But in these times so early after the war and the destruction of the Allspark-" A slight hitch in his vocals, but it was hardly noticed. "-there is nothing to be done about our inability to produce sparklings at this present date. We simply do not have the means by which to create new sparks without the assistance of the Allspark."

A heavy silence settled over the room as though the weight of their entire race resting upon their shoulders, which was actually truer than any of them would have liked to admit since clearly they did not have the answers their restless people desired. It was a time of desperation and uncertainty.

In that moment of condemned resignation a word was uttered, so low had the room not been silent it would have passed unheard, but be it coincidence or fate the Prime heard it just as he had turned to look directly to the soft-spoken mech.

For a moment the Prime locked optics with the elder mech who'd remained silent throughout the entirety of the congregation thus far, searching those fatigued faceplates for some deeper meaning. Optimus saw an unfathomable pain in those optics, a shame and a deeply ingrained wisdom only vorns of experience can bring, before his helm lowered. That was when Optimus knew there was more to be addressed in this matter than any of them could have ever imagined.

The old ones knew things.

Squaring his shoulders he addressed the now silent mech. "Councilmen Pointblank. May I ask you to please repeat that?"

The mech glanced up as though startled by the Prime's words, but in such a way that it seemed he'd been expecting to be addressed. His face was still, lips drawn in a pained line, optics bright but unseeing before they dimmed, as though lost within the ripples of time.

Coming back to himself, Pointblank finally repeated. "Mahikashi." And he cringed at the word as though the very utterance of it burned his glossa. His shame was evident, his pain even more so.

"A myth produced by the processors of old fools before the war." A younger councilman designated Roadrage snarled harshly, casting a condescending glower towards the much older mech. "What business has such folly he-"

"Hold your glossa youngling, or I shall remove it." Ratchet snapped, his tone holding no lie.

Optimus nodded his thanks to the medic and motioned for Pointblank to continue.

With a tired shake of his head the elder proceeded, but now much more solemn. "I do not fault young Roadrage for being unaware of the long history regarding the Mahikashi, nor do I expect any of you to know much more on the matter than the few tales that have been passed down the ranks from glossa to glossa." Another shake of his head before his optics, clouded in a haze of bitter memories, sought out every mech within the room. "Discard all you thought you knew about the Mahikashi, for those tales are lies fabricated by the former priests of the Allspark temple."

There was uproar from the younger mechs, rage burning in their optics at the brazen way any bot, even so old, could speak such treachery of the former priests. It was unheard of amongst the Autobot ranks and had not been so common among the Decepticons either, but the Prime once more raised his hand and all grew silent.

"Please continue." Optimus encouraged, now genuinely interested in what a mech of such obvious knowledge had to say. There were not many left who remembered the days of old and Optimus himself had been a relatively young bot at the beginning of the war.

After taking a moment to recollect his thoughts the elder bot continued. "Before I can explain just who the Mahikashi are I must first warn you that what you are about to hear will not be easy-" His old, wise optics shuttered once, a shamed grimace flickering over his faceplates. "Nor pleasant. Nonetheless, you must all bear witness to this."

Many in the room remained motionless, save the brief shuttering of a councilmen's optics and the drumming of another's fingers against the table's edge. They did not believe, could not comprehend the weight of the old one's words for they had not seen the tragedies that he had witnessed in his long years. The old one shook his helm. But they would soon enough.

"As I am sure you are all aware, the war begun after vorns of confrontation between the lower and higher casts, chiefly due to the imbalance of power and the depleting of our planet's resources." His face contorted into a pained frown. "However, that time before the Great War is greatly shrouded in secrecy, its records said to have been lost in the initial clashes of the two fractions." His optics flashed. "That is a lie. I know this." A long pause, the far off look in the elder's optics revealing to all the inner turmoil. "I will never forget. I was the one ordered to destroy the documents containing records of our planet's disgrace. The records of the existence of the Mahikashi."

Pointblank shuttered suddenly, so violently his armor rattled with the effort to suppress it, the rims of his optics beginning to mist over, unseeing. "I- I was there. I saw it all. I saw everything; everything and I did nothing to stop it. Like a coward I hid and told myself that I could do nothing." His grip on the chair arm tightened, leaving dents in the thick metal, tense. "Even my own friend. I turned him in because I was afraid that they'd find me and kill me just like the rest of them. I didn't want to die, He- he said he-"

The mech was unexpectedly pulled from his memory-induced hysteria by the placing of a firm hand upon his arm, gripping the armor in a reassuring grasp. Still he shook.

"My friend." The Prime's voice said soothing, not wanting to further discomfort the already distraught mech. "Do you perhaps have memory files that can be shared, if you are not yet ready to tell us of your experience."

The mech looked up at the taller mech, his face twisted into an unfathomable expression before he nodded tightly and shakily reached to his wrist, pulling out a thin data chip that would download selective memory files into a data package.

"This-" He began quietly, helm lowering as he gently held the chip in his hands, staring down at it with an eternally wounded expression. "Is a copy of the original records before I destroyed them, as well as my own memories of that time."

He turned his near dead stare up towards his Prime and sunk in on himself, hiding himself from that sympathetic gaze. But that soft, knowing gaze never yielded and the comfort they gave the old mech only served to make him feel ever dirtier, unworthy. He wished only to suffer. Hatred he could handle, but compassion killed him inside. He did not deserve kindness, he had decided long ago as he'd watched energon pooling beneath him, reflecting his lost expression within its warm depths, because he had abandoned those who needed him first.

After a while, he spoke again. "I could not bring myself to forget. Nor ever let the memories of those who've passed be forgotten. Please do not take compassion on me young Prime. I only ever find peace when I remember that my end is near and Primus himself shall decide my punishment." And sometimes when he remembered the gentle optics that had gazed upon him in those last moments before they went dim forever, the old mech wished he'd burn in the pits for all eternity.

The large hand did not move, but instead tightened in reassurance. "We all make decisions we regret my friend, and many more we cannot take back, but-" His optics softened further, trying to lend strength to the distraught mech. "Only by honoring the memories of those who have passed on can we amend for those lost."

Pointblank's optics flickered back to brightness for the briefest of moments, casting those about the room a vacant glance before finally turning to face his Prime. "Some things cannot be forgiven." And with that he handed the chip to the Prime, hastily got to his feet and pulled his arm from the taller bot's grip, almost tripping over himself in his rush to get to the door.

The Prime let him go, because he knew this was a battle the old mech had to fight alone, as some battles were.

Before the mech fully exited the room though, he stopped. Slowly, he turned that haunted stare towards the Prime and for the first time did not flinch in meeting his optic. "May you be forgiven for your ancestor's past transgression against Primus' people." And then he was gone, nothing more than a flicker of memory in their long, long lives.

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><p><em>So it passed that the young masters of a new world forged from a signature signed in energon gathered together once more in gleaming towers to bridge the gap forming between the masters and the many. So it passed that the young masters bore witness to the sins of their reverent ancestors, acts of suffering not even their Primus could condone. And as they bore witness to the shame of their race, they too became stained by it, this dark chapter in the lives of a people whose history is seeped in war.<em>

_They bore witness to The Hunts, The Cleansing, and the suffering placed upon the few in the name of Primus, of Cybertron, of all cybertronians, and they too saw the roar of the crowd as the few where thrown to the smelting pits and their creations baptized in great barrels of acid. They bore witness to the delight of the many as the few's armor were pealed back from their protoforms in a swirl of withering surrender, and they bore witness to how the many would cheer as the mutilated frames of the few's creations were melted to mercury tears that streamed through the priest's ringed fingers._

_The masters of this new world remained silent, optics shifting as one's gaze does in the presence of an unsettling truth, and hands clenched as they watched the world they had once sought to restore was shrouded in a veil of shadow, where brother turned against brother and all was in chaos. And among the new masters of a world forged from a signature signed in energon, a stumbling gasp from trembling lips was heard as they bore witness to the violation of a young one with gold optics for the sake of Primus, of Cybertron, of all cybertronians, and yet another as the mercury tears of a newborn's mutilated frame was smeared over the spark casing of its creator, bound by chains to the floor before the alter of Primus._

_The screams of those so brutally ripped to pieces before the alter of Primus by the once life-giving hands of their own kin with red crosses upon their frames, their fellow cybertronians made monsters in the face of an uncontrollable fear, upon the live feed above them like the mirrored gaze of Primus himself was drowned out by the enraged roar of the new masters, the image of their hellish origins laid bare before their optics more than many could bare. And the new master with the red crosses upon his shoulders and the red life-giving hands by his side was silent, for his horror was that of the silent kind, a rage without name, unspeakable._

_One young master fled the great tower of steel and privilege that had once been bathed in the long forgotten energon of those who'd once been their own, away from the sight of an unfathomable evil. Another put a hand to his mouth, his glossa burning from screams unheard and cries withheld. And yet another turned away, and muttered a silent prayer._

_And the Prime, who'd given all he was to built this new world of peace and sanctuary for his people with a signature signed in energon with his own hands upon the grayed frames of his enemies, could not look away as he watched the many cheer and rejoice, a sea of red and blue, of red and purple, of Autobot and Decepticon made one in a common goal, and the cries of a single child with tears on his face trapped in their mist, bound and laid open for all to see._

_The voices of the many were rising, frenzying into a hum of celebration and devotion to their God as they beat the young child day after day after day till the energon upon the ground had long since run cold and the young one had stilled upon the sullied land, his hands still bound and his exposed spark chamber long since cast into shadow. But still the fists did not cease, still the kicks did not stop, still the chanting continued._

"_Kill them, kill them, kill them all. Kill the Disease, kill the Viruses, kill the Tainted ones, kill the Infected, kill the Unicron spawns. Kill them, kill them, kill the Mahikashi. For Primus, for Cybertron, for all cybertronians, let us cleanse the world of evil."_

_And a single tear slid silently down the face of the Prime who had given all he was to built this new world of peace and sanctuary for his people with a signature signed in energon with his own hands upon the grayed frames of his enemies._

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Oh, Optimus, bless your noble spark, I am so sorry you have to suffer through such horrible truths, but I swear it will get better. To those reading, I know this story has been exceptionally heavy on the angst so far, but it will have lighter parts of fluff and light, fuzzy things that make fangirls giggle a little inside. That is a promise! Also, the only reason this was updated so quickly was because I already had this chapter written out, it was just in need of some editing and material reviewing to be sure I wanted to start my story this way.

**Please review…**


	3. Brotherhood

**Disclaimer: Don't own Transformers…**

**Warnings:** Unbated. Discrimination against a minority, mentions of detailed deaths, disturbing images and dark themes. Angsty.

**Note:** Some characters will be a bit altered in behavior/statue due to the change in their background from cannon, but hopefully not too much.

**AN:** I would like to give my sincerest thanks to **Amai Seishin-Hime** and **Fliara** for reviewing last chapter, the feeling of accomplishment I felt when I read your reviews is something I cannot do justice to with mere words, and it is because of that that I was motivated to write this whole other chapter in so little a time that I did even with work getting in the way. Thank you so much, and for those of you who've read the last two chapters in OKI, I hope you enjoy this newest chapter as much as you did the others. This is the fluffiness I promised, with angst and some darkness thrown in. Please enjoy!

(**This Story as been Edited…**)

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><p><strong>Mahikashi<strong>

**-Ch 2: Brotherhood-**

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><p><em>Divided we perish, united we stand, we are Mahikashi the damned, and as we always have, we will survive these dark times and once more look to the future for guidance. We are Mahikashi and we will survive. We are Mahiakshi.<em>

_Amen._

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><p>There was a profound, almost surreal, silence on the small, quaint planet nestled comfortably in a small cluster of stars not so far from the Milkyway, with its strange glowing oceans stretching from one pole to the other and flaking lands of otherworldly silver and blue stones. For those who would witness, it was peaceful.<p>

A quivering thunder like echo suddenly rolled over the land in a moment of ceaseless movement, the land shaking and the inhabitants of this quaint little world rose from their recharge with knowing groans.

"Fraggit, Wheeljack! It's to early for this slag!"

"Sorry, my hand slipped."

Nervous laughter, a chorus of disgruntled groans, and in much the same way it always seemed to, a new cycle began for the inhabitants of that quaint little planet nestled comfortably in a small cluster of stars not so far from the Milkyway.

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><p>"There's got to be a better way to online 'n the mornings." Ironhide growled deeply in his throat, his sharp, pointed glare focusing intently on the bashfully fidgeting inventor standing sheepishly before their base leader with his helm panels flashing and his little winglets twitching ever so slightly; not an uncommon sight this early in the cycle.<p>

It was honestly quite cute, and everyone knew, just as certainly as they knew that Ironhide could be found at the firing range at any given time of the cycle and Prowl would be in his office hard at work before the joor's end, that Wheeljack would be forgiven by all inhabitants of the small base before even the first shift had ended. It was just the way things went with this ragtag family. It was all they had.

"We have discussed this before." Prowl sighed softly, a gesture that had long since changed from being that of stifle annoyance to that of fond, helplessness towards the other's antics. "You are not to begin experimenting until…"

Recognizing the expectant pause, Wheeljack perked up and continued as he was expected to do. "Until everyone on the base is awake. I know, I know Prowl, but I had suddenly woke from recharge with this burst of inspiration and knew I just had to start on this new invention as soon as possible!" The easily excited scientist leaned in closer to his base leader then, lowering his voice as he finished as though sharing a great secret. "It's my best idea yet."

"I'm sure it is." Prowl agreed warmly despite his seemingly indifferent expression, though everyone, bar Wheeljack it seemed, knew that the inventor said that about all his current creations, and therefore the praxian was just humoring him in that caring, encouraging kind of way the inventor seemed to thrive off. "Now, you will not be given maintenance duty this time since I believe Perceptor is in need of your company." At the dawning realization upon the other's face, the gradual shadow of foreboding that caressed lightly at the inventor's expression, Prowl continued, slowly. "Hound informed me that he was heading towards the labs in one of his moods."

A small flicker of the lips, a flinch in his expression, a deep sadness pooling in his optics, and with a small nod Wheeljack took his leave with a silence that spoke of an untold history, heading towards the lab facilities with a single-minded determination that still, after so many vorns of knowing him, managed to surprise his makeshift family. But then again, when had any of them been weak in the face of hardship.

The resounding crack of a fist meeting steel rung across the smooth surfaces of the room, leaving a harsh silence in its wake that continued to echo beneath the undercurrents of time even after the sound had passed. At the familiar sound, Prowl turned just in time to catch sight of Ironhide's rigid back rounding the corner near his now dented table, but remained silent as the red mech slipped from sight.

Prowl knew Ironhide would return to fix the damages left in the wake of his rage in good time, but now was not that time, not when so many long suppressed memories had been once more brought to the surface. So instead, he walked to the center platform of the room to pray for a swift return to the peace they now clung to in these dark hours.

His helm bowed slightly in a posture of silent respect and deep felt devotion, Prowl put a single hand up to the light of the rising sun creeping over their waking world and spoke the words he had been for so long taught to uphold in times of adversity. "Divided we perish, united we stand, we are Mahikashi the damned, and as we always have, we will survive these dark times and once more look to the future for guidance. We are Mahikashi and we will survive. We are Mahiakshi."

"Amen."

At the voice, Prowl lowered his hand to curl it gently before his chassis in a comfortingly familiar position that had never truly left him since the days before the Hunts, his amber optics dimming softly as he turned away from the rising sun to face the mech standing patiently beside him, taking in the way the other's posture swayed in unease at his upright posture. He smiled slightly at the sight of the other, holding out his hand in the same way he would pray, seeking comfort and acknowledgement.

Softly, their palms touched and Prowl curled the tips of his fingers over those of the smaller mech, using the greater size of his hand to encase the other's in a sign of protection and unwavering fondness. "Hound, how are you fairing?" He asked kindly, some of the sadness seeping away from the confines of his spark at the other's soothing presence.

Hound smiled brightly, optics flashing as he once more righted his precariously leaning posture with a quick jerk of his hips and swing of his strained thighs. "Oh, fine." Hound answered in that slow, measured drawl so characteristic to a mech of his unfortunate background. "Just worry 'bout Percy." He admitted, interlacing his fingers with that of his leaders. "You?"

"I-" Prowl thought about soothing a half-truth into their conversation, as to not unsettle the other needlessly, but he hesitated, looking into those shifting blue optics and knew there was no lying to this mech, for nether words nor expression ruled the tracker's world, and nether words nor expression could hide truth from a mech such as Hound. "I worry for Perceptor." He said honestly.

Hound nodded, once more righting himself as his back began to slouch upward into a graceful arch and his knees near buckled under the weight of his frame. "All do." Hound drawled out, leaning much of his weight against his leader to steady himself as his legs began to shake and creak from standing upright for too long.

Open, trusting, vulnerable, the display was. It honored Prowl that he was trusted enough to be witness to such displays of weakness from a fellow Mahikashi.

"Find 'Hide. Pledge." The tracker mumbled softly from the warmth of Prowl's chassis, their fingers still interlaced in a symbol of the Mahikashi faith. "Call bases. 'Wave n'm Star pledge too."

"Yes." Prowl assured calmly, slowing lowering to his knees to face Hound as the tracker dropped into a more stable crotched position. "Divided we perish, united we stand-"

"-We are Mahikashi the damned-"

"_-And as we always have, we will survive these dark times and once more look to the future for guidance. We are Mahikashi and we will survive. We are Mahiakshi. Amen._"

* * *

><p>"<em>Wat'up meh main mech. Blaster here broadcastin' from base Luna'13, and might ah add wat a spectacular view we got goin' on here<em>." The mech on screen beamed from the overhead screen of the Command Center, all but leering to the side where no doubt his bondmate must be lurking.

"_Blaster: Ridiculous. Command: Move._"

Prowl struggled valiantly to maintain his outwardly stoic expression as he watched the happenings from the overhead display, nearly failing as Soundwave managed to shove his half-sparkedly protesting bondmate to the side while simultaneously pushing a slightly fussy Buzzsaw into Blaster's arms. It was endearing, seeing the two reacting so comfortably with each other, as bondmates should.

"_Greetings: Prowl, Hound, Ironhide._" The navy blue bot spoke bluntly, tone neutral but suspiciously laced with tension, the telltale flash of his richly shaded crimson visor giving the impression that he was looking each bot in the optic levelly as he addressed them. A sneaky black hand appeared on screen, only to be slapped away promptly by a much putout Soundwave as innocent giggles rose in the background not so far from Soundwave's feet. "_Blaster: Desist immediately. Reason: Meeting._"

A tiny hand appeared on screen reaching for the control bottoms, but Soundwave quickly stopped the little bot from pressing any of them. "_Rumble: Desist._"

A squeal of joy was heard as a second, faster little white hand shot out from behind Soundwave's chair and pressed the first button within its reach, temporarily turning the screen composition a murky green. "_Rebound!_"

"_Eject: Desist!_" Another round of giggles as Soundwave picked the white sparkling up and unceremoniously dumped both his little creations into Blaster's arms. "_Apologies. Sparklings: Active._" The co-communication's officer apologized sincerely, his wary gaze still glued to Blaster's notoriously adventurous hands inching towards his arm and the mischievously giggling sparklings encouraging their co-carrier's antics. "_Recommendation: Recharge time._"

Hound laughed lightly at that, even going so far as to balance himself into a precarious stand beside the main control counsel to get a better view of the happenings on screen. Ironhide smirked faintly, but turned away again a moment later, still harboring that distant gaze that seemed so characteristic to the Mahikashi.

The giggling on screen ceased immediately, only to be replaced by the flurried clank of tiny feet making a mad dash for a door to the far side of the communication center off screen, but not before Rewind and Buzzsaw swiftly gave their co-carrier a classic, tight-lipped sparkling kiss on either side of the blue mech's mouth guard.

Blaster snickered at his creation's antics and Soundwave turned his sharp-opticed gaze on his bondmate. "_Consideration: Have bondmate recharge in Rec room. Time: Indeterminate._"

And as predictable as the rotation of the moon round their quaint little planet, that snickering trailed off into a rather pathetic whine. "_'Wavy, meh main machine, don't be that way! Show a lil' compassion. Where da love, mech?_"

After watching, which great amusement one may add, the antics of Luna'13's inhabitants, his fellow Mahikashi, Prowl cleared his vents, catching Soundwave's attention before he could turn that highly concentrated glare on his bondmate once more with the promise of a many, many cold recharge cycles. Soundwave was just a bit sadistic like that in regards to his beloved Blaster, but if anything, Blaster only seemed to revel in the challenge his less than agreeable bondmate presented.

"_Apologies._"

"Think nothing of it, Soundwave. It is evident enough that you are doing well-" A quick glance to that devious black hand that had found it's way onto Soundwave's thigh. "-Despite the circumstances." And Prowl meant it. It was assuring to see Soundwave making such progress, and it was even more so watching his and Blaster's creations growing to be such cheerful, curious little things despite the constant strain that seemed to exist from their cycle-to-cycle lives. "Though I am curious as to the conspicuous nature of your chassis seams."

Had Soundwave been any other bot he may have felt compelled to hide his face in embarrassment at the blatant comment regarding the swelling of his spark compartment, but being who he was he merely nodded and explained in the simplest terms. "_Observation: Blaster cannot keep his hands off me. Sparklings: Imitate. Prediction: Increase in Mahikashi population._"

"_Damn straight ah can't keep meh hands off dat sexy aft of yours!_"

Hound burst into a haughty fit of laughter at that, falling into his more comfortable couching stance at the force of it, and even Ironhide seemed to have crawled away from the dark mood that had been lingering over him for the last few joors.

Prowl's expression remained neutral, as his programming would dictate since the moment of his creation, but Soundwave, being as perspective as he was, could see the sheen of mirth hidden in those amber depths, before it was promptly replaced with the utmost seriousness. "I see. But putting such trivia aside, an occurrence as arisen and it has come to my attention that perhaps a renewal of our pledge is in order. It is essential that we manage to contact outposts Mar'3 and Sol'12 after the proceedings of this ceremony as well as to reassert our ties with the residents there."

At that, Blaster suddenly reappeared on screen, casting a worried glance towards Ironhide. "_'Hide meh mech, ya holdin' up okay. Ya been broodin' somethin' fierce of late._"

"Not me, Percy's in one of his moods. Probably had another recharge flex." Ironhide grunted irritably, though Blaster didn't take the annoyed tone to spark. He knew, as all those within their little family did, that 'Hide was simply a bit of a hardaft when it came to any sort of emotional situations. Not that they really blamed him for his behavior, the fact that he was still alive was enough for them.

"_Inquiry: Perceptor's Status._"

"Wheeljack is with him. I expect a swift recovery from this unfortunate incidence."

That seemed to satisfy the blue mech, because without further a due Soundwave lifted his hand to the screen and placed it gently, reverently, against the smooth glass right beside his bondmate's, waiting with that ever-present devotion that had so strongly endeared him to his bondmate and their creations. Those within Prowl's crew also lifted their hands to the display screen, staring right into the optics of those before them as they began as one, their voices raising as a passion not just their own, but all of their people, overtook them with its powerful presence.

"_Rejected and hunted for sins beyond our control, we are the last of our kind, the survivors of a war against the malice of a people whom had once been our own. But now we are our own, for we are not of the cybertronian people and the cybertronian people are not of us. We are not creations of Primus, for there is no righteous God in the optics of the cybertronian people, only the God that the Priests have created within themselves._

_We are Mahikashi. We bow before no false God. We are Mahikashi. We yield to no people not our own. We are Mahikashi. We will not be destroyed. We will survive. We are Mahikashi._

_Divided we perish, united we stand, we are Mahikashi the damned, and as we always have, we will survive these dark times and once more look to the future for guidance. We are Mahikashi and we will survive. We are Mahiakshi."_

_Amen._"

* * *

><p><em>As they had done for so many vorns since the endings of the dreaded Hunts and the beginnings of their new lives of peace and healing, the Mahikashi banded together in their small ships, hands linked in a symbol of unity and their sparks fluttering as they prayed to a divine higher power they dare not seek a name to in fear that corruption would ensnare their sparks as it had the sparks of a people they had once called their own. They wept together as memories long pass were brought forth anew and mended over with the devotion and affections of their fellow Mahikashi. They became a single entity once more, connected for eternity by a past drenched in their life-giving energon upon the steps of the alter of Primus and a united front of unjust persecution set against them by the cybertronian people.<em>

_Hope was restored to the weary sparks of the Mahikashi, the promise for a future better than anything any of them could ever have imagined made reality by the unity and love they shared. It was in this time of wholeness and renewal that their truth, the truth they had spent so long believing, given so much of themselves to believe in, was once more chanted from their lips with the same loyalty as it was given that first time the words had ever been uttered from their cracked and bleeding lips. But most importantly, the words resounded within their very sparks, farther than their voices could ever reach, set in bonds stronger than shackles and chains, deeper than energon and pain, more firmly than even the need for life._

_And as they chanted their prayer, their ultimate truth, they let it become their reality, their divine power. They let it consume them. _

_Divided we perish, united we stand, we are Mahikashi the damned, and as we always have, we will survive these dark times and once more look to the future for guidance. We are Mahikashi and we will survive. We are Mahiakshi._

_Amen._

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Now we clearly see where the problem will lie in the future when the Mahikashi and the cybertronians attempt to become one once more. Hopefully, all will be well and this rather dark story will have a happy ending…or not. Given my nature, it could go either way depending on the development throughout, but I am a bit of a sucker for the '_and they lived happily ever after_' theme. However, I am also a realistic person. Only time will tell it seems.

**Please review…**


	4. By the Lord's Name

**Disclaimer: Don't own Transformers…**

**Warnings:** Unbated. Discrimination against a minority, mentions of detailed deaths, disturbing images and dark themes. Angsty.

**Special thanks** to **jackalkat**, **Kalthar**, and **hecate-19** for pointing out grammar mistakes in previous chapters. Please, I pray that anyone reading this story will also not hesitate to point out any grammar mistakes I've made. I know that I am not the best at grammar or spelling and that such lack of these things can be distressing for many readers. I promised I will not bite, I simply wish to be told my story's flaws so that they can be corrected to enhance the enjoyment of the readers of this fic. Thank you.

**AN:** I am simply overwhelmed by the sheer force of the reviews I received last chapter for this story. It was like- I just not know how to describe it! I posted it, went to work, did homework, fell asleep after cleaning the house and woke up to find a whole army of some of the loveliest reviews I've ever read lining my inbox. I almost fainted in shock. Thank you all so much and please enjoy this chapter! I only hope I do not disappoint, because I know how stories tend to deteriorate over time if not watched carefully.

**(Edited...)**

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><p><strong>Mahikashi<strong>

**-Ch 3: By the Lord's Name-**

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><p><em>The Matrix of Leadership sent a vision to its barer not long after the past sins of his people had been laid bare before the Prime's very optics, it's message clouded in a mist of uncertainty and swollen heavy with a presence darker than the deepest reaches of the universe, a vision that would haunt the Prime for many a night to come.<em>

_In his hands he held a spark that knew no equal, without words to describe its baring, blazing gold and glowing untarnished through the cracks of his strong hands, a tiny being without name or conscious, but so very much alive, pulsing within his grasp. Its soft glow is beautiful, more beautiful than the Prime had ever thought possible, a rare treasure upon his unworthy hands, so fragile, so small. The Prime believes it hope._

_And with a single breath, an uttered word, the light goes out forever._

_Mahikashi._

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><p>Jazz was as silent as the shadows he had for so long been imprisoned to in those final battles of the war, the dark abyss that hummed softly to his spark, like a soothing lullaby in the dead of night, his clawed hands steady at his side, face set in stone as was his nature. He's frozen, though neither in fear nor terror, but in rage, a black, black thing that lingers in his mind and eats away at his spark, makes him almost shake at the sheer intensity of it. He has long since lost his words.<p>

The screen before him is shifting, flashing hellish depictions of a world even the horrors of war could not convey, the truth of his origins flickering before his optics on little more than a visual screen upon a small table in the center of a featureless room. With each passing image the mech found his visored gaze looking once more to the growing list beside him, an endless expanse of names marked with a single red stroke, a system of efficiency more terrifying than the battle plans set forth by Shockwave had ever been; systematic Genocide of an entire sub-frame of the cybertronian race.

And he would bear witness to it all. For his Prime, for his people, for his sins, and for himself, he would bear witness to it all.

* * *

><p>Ratchet sat seething before his Prime, shoulders stiff and back still wound up in tension, a snarl marring his expression. He would let none console him, would let naught a word of their assurances move him. He, who had spent his entire functioning upholding what he thought was the medic's code, the code to the preservation of life, had witnessed the origins of those practices. It sickened him in ways he could not express with words.<p>

"My friend." Optimus begun soothingly, his voice holding more depths than even the well itself, the epiphany of understanding to the down trodden, as he took in the tense posture of his closest and most trusted friend. "Please know that no one thinks any less of you for the past transgressions we have been shown. We-"

"That is not the fragging point here, Prime!" Ratchet bellowed in outrage, icy blue optics flashing dangerously, an edge of hatred shining forth not seen in him since the war, his entire chassis heaving upwards with each labored intake that heaved through his vents. "I am a fragging medic, Optimus. It is my sworn duty to protect all life to the best of my abilities. You wish to make peace with the Mahikashi. Fraggit, Prime! Look at what happened to them. How could they-" He cut himself off then, a flicker of something lost and vulnerable flickering through his expression before it was replaced with something unfathomably sad. "How could they forgive me, being what I am?"

There it was, the reality of Ratchet's existence having been made clear with little more than the flicker of an image before his optics. The sight of motionless frames bearing red crosses upon their shoulders lined orderly against the temple wall, programmed to recognize unique spark signatures and pick out those not of average design, programmed to locate and detain suspicious individuals among the people, programmed to eliminate impurities.

The Red Cross: a symbol of fear among the Mahikashi, the marking of those who sought to cleanse the world of _their kind_.

Before the war, there had been no form of standardized medic, only those who had specialized in the field of healing and required payment for their services. When The Hunts had reached its height though, a new model of bot had been designed specifically to seek out and report those carrying abnormal spark signatures. They had been called 'Healers', named as such to symbolize their desire to heal their dying world. Of all the methods ever created to annihilate the Mahikashi, the 'Healers' had been the most effective. They had been trained to see everything, to know the moment a bot acted out of the ordinary. There had been no hiding from them, and for many, no escape.

At first, their function had been of the most top-secret nature. They would check the health of their fellow cybertronians and ensure the well being of those unable to afford the care of proper freelance medics- or so the council had led the people to believe. It had been many decacycles later, when a list of those accused of those being Mahikashi had been documented and widely distributed throughout the entirely of the cybertronian populace, that their true function was made known. But by then, most of the Mahikashi population had already been identified and filed.

Cycles after the list's release, the largest recorded slaughter The Hunts had ever seen broke out through the cities of the planet. The streets had literally been paved in spilt energon for cycles and young mechs had bathed in its soft glow with growing wonder as the ever failing lights of their cities continued to go dark.

However, when the war had begun and the need to hunt the Mahikashi had come to an abrupt halt, their programs had been altered from seeking out abnormal spark signatures to seeking out the wounded and using their newly downloaded medical upgrades to heal those injured in the fighting. Under the order of the Priests and the former Council, under order of their very Prime, their name was changed to 'medics', and when a fleet of 'medics' had been brought online to assist in the war effort, the code to seek and detain those with abnormal spark signatures had been removed, seen as a waste of processor space that could be used to store valuable medical information; reminders of a past they wished to be forgotten.

Ratchet had been brought online as a war medic, but the frame types of his generation were those of a first generation 'Healer'. It was a tragedy not of his making, but it is his alone to bear, for Ratchet is the last of his generation, a medic in a "Healer's" veil.

Now, after all these vorns, Ratchet knew why he had weapons hidden within his frame compartments, why he was so heavily built where other medics of the later generations were so slight in frame. His frame type had not been originally designed to heal the wounded- it had been modified for that purpose by countless upgrades and endless devotion to duty- it had, in reality, formerly been designed to destroy the Mahikashi, by any means necessary.

Could the Mahikashi ever feel safe in the presence of a bot bearing the same design of those who would destroy them? Could they accept a bot that wears their symbol of fear with honor? Could they trust a bot that proclaims peace but has only known war? Those were the questions Ratchet had no answer to, the questions that plagued him.

A rough, crimson hand came to rest over the red crosses of his shoulders, the very symbol he had held up for so long with pride, a representation for all he was, had thought himself to be. Now, he is not so sure what it means. His optics look to his Prime, knowing that his pain was not his alone to bear, for he had seen the sins of their former Prime just as he had witnessed the sins of his own predecessors. It is unsettling.

How does a Prime who values harmony and unity above all things, defend the honor of his ancestors when the very title he claims to be that of protection and trust has been so deeply sullied by the acts of his precursor?

"I do not know, Ratchet." Optimus says lightly after some time, the truth of it cutting deeply into his spark, the vision Primus had sent him after so long of silence coming back to haunt him with it's uncertainty. "However-" Optimus stood then, his optics hard with determination, a drive that knew no equal, cool compassion unlike anything Cybertron had ever seen before, their Prime. "It is our duty to all cybertronians to protect and serve them to our greatest ability. They are our people, Ratchet, and whether they forgive our ancestors' past wrongs or not they will always be our people." That burning fire, like liquid passion, set the Prime's optics ablaze as next he spoke. "And we will always be sworn to protect them. You know this as well as I do, and sometimes-" The Prime paused, leveling his medic with that powerful, spark stopping stare, the hue of his optics dimming to that of hazed starlight. "Sometimes I believe you understand this even more so than I. You are my friend, Ratchet, and I know what goodness lies within your spark. If you cannot win their trust, than much is lost."

Optimus paused again, his frame heavy and optics firm, a look so very much intertwined with the very essence of what it meant to be the Prime, to be a good leader, to be a mech, to be Optimus. There was something in the straightening of his back, the tall form of his frame and the steadiness of his hands, the heavy roar of his spark and the open honestly of his expression, that made even the surest mechs listen and the most cynical believe. There was simply something about Optimus Prime that made him more than just their leader, more than just a figurehead with the Matrix in his chamber and a sword in his hands. It moved bots, spoke to them in ways not understood, made them follow this mech with naught but a name bound by a title and energon on his hands. He made them believe, and that's all they've ever needed.

"We must make peace with them, Ratchet. We cannot allow them to live in fear any longer, and I cannot ignore the cries of my people here. Primus sent me a vision, and though I do not know its exact meaning, I believe it is necessary to the survival of _all_ my people that these riffs be mended and our lives brought back together. As we speak, Jazz is reviewing the files and determining the last known coordinates of the surviving fleet." Ratchet's optics shifted at that, a small gesture of acknowledgement, a sign of the sting of words nipping at his glossa, not all so kind in nature, as he maintained his silence in the presence of his Prime. "I have also asked him to create a list of potential mechs we may encounter. So that we may best prepare for the future."

A silence settled upon them, one whose thoughts were lost in the infinite mysteries of a time long forgotten and the other unsure of what to say, for his glossa was still and his hands still steady.

"Pointblank was very thorough in his detailing of that time." Ratchet finally broke the silence, his voice gruff and unflinching, as it had always been, but so very soft. "I am sure Jazz will be able to manage."

Optimus nodded, his frame still tense, still so rigid with the shame of all those who would trespass this unspeakable sin against his people, the people he would give his very spark to protect though he had never before smiled and held their hand in gentle acceptance as they sung their praise to his glory, this dark stain upon his spark, like a wound left to fester in the dark corners of his mind. An enemy he could not see, could not control, could not defeat; his own morality. He could feel it writhing inside.

When next he spoke, his words sank deep into the silence, cutting and raw, bathing his own spark with hope, a truth he knew as profoundly as the shadows of this world or the pulsing of the Matrix within his chassis. "Till all are one. We will finally find peace when all are one."

And Ratchet turned away, for he too understood, as he always had.

"Till all are one."

* * *

><p>Bumblebee tilted his helm slightly in bewilderment, his full, shapely lips pursing into an expression of puzzlement as he watched his blue plated friend take yet another rock from his collection and delicately polish its smooth surface to a glowing shine, watching uncomprehendingly as it was placed back with the others. Merely one of many his friend had collected over the vorns. And still his perplexity only heightened when his blue plated friend took hold of yet another stone from the assortment and turned it over in the palm of his hand with tender efficiency, letting the grated surface rest against his long, delicate fingers.<p>

"Why do you still keep them, Beachcomber?" Bumblebee asked seriously, though not unkindly, his mouth tilted in such a way that one could not tell if he was smiling or simply unable to form the expression on his lips. "Not that I think you shouldn't. I'm just curious you know." He spoke quickly in his own defense once he realized the potential negative connotation such words could hold, his voice still young and sooth with supple innocence, something so rare in these times, though his friend merely turned that drifting blue gaze on him.

A smile curved Beachcomber's lips as he spoke, his optics reflecting some obscure, far-off place the small yellow bot couldn't seem to reach no matter how deeply he searched for it amongst the stars. "It's not so much keeping them as it is remembering what they're worth, you know man." And Bumblebee did know, though only a little, but he nodded anyway because this was his friend and he had never been one to discriminate against his friends' choice of lifestyles.

"I get it. So they remind you of those planets we visited. They're like souvenirs." The small, yellow bot with plating that shone like the sun itself beamed merrily with his full lips and his still too young voice, small hands clasped together as he waited for the other to confirm, eager for acknowledgement, as was his way.

Beachcomber searched the other with those still hazy optics, something deep and unfathomable stirring within them as they dimmed gently into a shade of soft understanding, his small smile still gracing his expression. In the light of the moon, it was beautiful.

"Yeah, man, something like that." But it wasn't, not really.

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><p><em>Among the faultless stars that lay scattered over the infinite universe like grains of white diamonds upon black silk, passed the reach of space's cool embrace and the fiery touch of its all seeing gaze, and over the void that lay endlessly beyond shadowed hands that hold the fabrics of reality within its wavering grasp as one would hold their silent prayer in the face of their God, a single flicker of light races through the Milkyway, a beacon of life in a place empty of all.<em>

_It is a signal, a mark upon time, a being of metal made symbolic by the shades of its character and the contents of its spark. A being without name in this endless place of darkness and shadow, where light is as far as the mind's eye and warmth as close as death itself. A place of contradiction, of beauty and repulsiveness, or light of dark, of life and death; an endless cycle of improbable possibilities made reality by thought alone, the invisible hand._

_Without sound or evidence of its existence it vanishes, with only the whispering stars as its witness._

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> I hope you liked it! Poor Ratchet. I know some might be going "What the heck is with the medic thing anyway, that's just unreasonable", but I assure you that when one peels back the layers, there is reason behind the madness. One need only look to find it.

**Please review…**


	5. Speak Not of Past Tragedies

**Disclaimer: Don't own Transformers…**

**Warnings:** Unbated. Discrimination against a minority, mentions of detailed deaths, disturbing images and dark themes. Angsty.

**AN:** Gasp! It's been so long since I updated this. I've had it 2/3 of the way done for a while now, but was not sure if it was up to the standards I wanted to have for this story, being what it is. I guess my lack of confidence caused me to freeze up. Anyway, thank you all who've reviewed on the last chapter and I hope you still find you enjoy this story despite the delays in updating. Hope you enjoy!

(**Will edit this more at a later date.**)

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><p><strong>Mahikashi<strong>

**-Ch 4: Speak Not of Past Tragedies-**

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><p><em>The past is something that cannot be changed, cannot be altered with neither the whisper of hushed voices pleading forgiveness nor the opening of a gentle hand and an even softer spark. There is little to be done for such truths, as is the way of most truths that fall upon the seams of reality, and it is in this realization of the nature of awareness that so many despair. Death cannot be undone, some hurts cannot be mended, some tragedies cannot be forgotten, and some sins can never be forgiven. This is the true nature of sentience, the curse of awareness, the acknowledgement of right and wrong, knowing.<em>

_Many will suffer for it, for that is one truth of the universe which can neither be forgotten nor rejected, for it is as its nature dictates it to be and there is little to be done for the laws of its existence with the opening of a hand and the whisper of sought forgiveness. And as the pulsing of a spark, still so young and tender in the warmth of its carrier's arms, is replaced with the hum of a weapon within one's grasp and the cold precision of the kill in one's cooling breath, such realities become all too apparent to the weary._

_Some tragedies are never forgotten, some sins never forgiven, death cannot be undone. This is the truth of their reality, of the Mahikashi's existence, and as they watch on with their quivering lips and unwavering optics, they chant the truth of their reality as they always have, a reminder of the sins that they will not forgive. And some, with their pulsing sparks and watching optics, forget the weapons in their hands for but a moment and become one with the words, become one with the truth they have known and upheld for so long._

_Some will forget, but not all, and when the chanting is done and the truth of their existence is once more restored, some will look down and remember that there is now a gun where once a young spark, so young and tender, had peered up from the warmth of their arms._

_Some tragedies are never forgotten, some sins never forgiven, death cannot be undone._

_We are Mahikashi._

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><p>The Luna'13 was a large ship of sturdy design and many sharp angles that reached all corners of the vessel from control center to lower hull much in the way of a war craft, streamlined but massive. In fact, it was indisputably the largest, and most certainly the most heavily populated, of the remaining Mahikashi fleet, a resilient old ship that always seemed to evade even the most persistent of troubles, a true survivor one may say. However, for those who knew the Luna'13's crew well there was only one designation that could explain this series of fortunate events…<p>

"Uncle, what you doin'?"

A screech not so unlike the grinding of metal wire upon glass suddenly echoed through the darkened confines of the monitor room, almost deafening in pitch, till a startling crackle signaled the beginnings of erratic flashes of blue along counsel screens. All was silent, a tense thing that held undertones not all so innocent in nature, like death warmed to a faint tickle upon the neck. It was not so uncommon.

"Rumble! You know we aren't supposed to sneak up on uncle like that. Now look, his helm's flashing again. I'm telling carrier."

"Tattletale!"

…Red Alert.

"He's not moving."

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><p>"Red. Red. Hey buddy. Red. Red, meh mech, ya home in there." There was a brief pause, one that promised nothing particularly pleasant, like a passing moment of contemplation not so unlike that of a conniving youngster. Soundwave himself, much to his grief, could attain to this lapse in communication his bond mate often slipped into. "Red Alert, da base is unda' fire mech! Get ya aft in gear!"<p>

Like a bolt of red lightning streaking through weightless skies, the once prone frame upon the medical berth snapped forward in a split second, stunningly bright optics wide and reflecting a kind of panic not comprehensible to observers, flickering wildly from dim to shocking blue faster than could be accurately recorded. It would have been a terrifying thing to witness, had this particular event not been such a common occurrence within the Luna'13.

"Soundwave, Blaster, set the alarms, ready the cannons, ignite the thrusters, secure the cargo, prepare the troops, take count of all civilians, gather the little ones to the safety hold, and for the sake of all that is good get Starscream on the line! Barricade, prepare for emergency-"

"Woah, woah, woah, Red. Take it easy." Blaster soothed on reflex, having known Red Alert would be stirred into frenzy the moment he awoke, particularly due to the circumstances by which he had awoken. "Jus' calm down an' take a deep intake." His optics dimmed in sympathetic mirth as he placed his hands up in surrender, smile firmly in place as was his nature, and continued before the other could succumb to another panic attack. "Nothin's attackin' anythin' else. Jus' tryin' ta get ya off da berth is all. Sorry for da fright." That smile didn't waver, but something in the communication officer's optics did, a kind of awareness that seemed to fester, an old wound that had ceased to heal; realization.

Red Alert shuttered his optics a few times in thought, helm still flashing periodically in distress, still groggy processors taking in the situation in its entirety, like a computer slow to warm up after a forced shut down. Then the words sunk in and the security officer's back snapped straight in attention and his lips curled to an ugly grimace, suspicion clear as starlight upon his features.

Red Alert snarled lividly at the larger bot. "You! What are you thinking raising the alarm when you know full well there is no danger? Do you know what would have happened if there was an attack and the crew-" Like a switched going off in his processors, the crazed gleam pooling in the security officer's optics was all the communication officer had to see to know where this was going. He'd made a mistake, Blaster recognized this now and berated himself for it, Red Alert simply had not been ready. "This is all part of your plan isn't it? It always has been! You're trying to get rid of me, just like-"

So it went that Blaster bore witness to the innermost thoughts of a bot so deeply entrenched in paranoia one had to wonder what horrors one of such a nature could accomplish had he ever the intention to play out the endless stream of scenarios plotting his own alleged demise upon another. From the spilling of his energon, to the accidental mispronunciation of a word Blaster could not recall saying, to the mundane as the number of times he'd snapped his fingers to a catchy tune, a story of such detail and brilliance was conducted that for a single moment of weakness Blaster himself was left to wonder the intimate details of it all.

It was actually rather terrifying listening to Red Alert when he got that way, something tragic and unspeakably sad, the horror of being trapped in a world where all he can comprehend is the deceit and wickedness, unable to escape a fate not yet set, something ungraspable but always before him.

Slowly, Blaster waved his hand, gartering the other's attention, optics laden with regret. A mistake, he'd made a mistake. "Ah said ah was sorry, mech. Chill." The words spoken were measured and carefully chosen for their implied neutrality, but far too calm. However, in that calmness there was a knowing, a deep understanding of the way of things only time could assure, an ache, a burn so deep it chilled him.

Red Alert stuttered briefly, seemingly lost and unsteady and oh so vulnerable, before he huffed up for another round.

"Red Alert."

But was promptly cut off. He turned his wild optics to the speaker, a deeply entrenched terror flooding forth in great tides of distress from his very spark, pulsing and aching with hurts unmended, enemies unseen. So much hurt, so much fear, reflecting pain and a world where shadows bred monsters of translucent skin and malicious gazes and the light reveals them with frightening clarity, where the evils of the world will never be defeated, will never go away. An eternal nightmare that even the rising sun will not end. Hellish.

"Apologies." Soundwave offered from the entryway of the medbay, voice cold and stoic as was usual, but holding a sort of inflection one might expect from a very put out mediator.

How such a contradiction in speech was possible Blaster would likely never know, and this was unusual in itself since he was a communications officer by function, but he knew it when he heard it. It promised nothing good in his near future.

"Suggestion: Soundwave will take care of Blaster." And as expected, the blue plated bot fixed his bond mate with a level stare, one that the red bot knew all too well, and despite the soothing smile still plastered on his lips Blaster felt a small part of himself writhe at the implications of that unwavering stare.

For a moment there was silence, swollen and profound with layers of thought and comprehension understood so intimately by old friends, but throughout it all Soundwave remained unmoving under the intense scrutiny of the security officer's gaze. However, this too was not so unusual, for as certainly as one knew Blaster would try to grab Soundwave's hand throughout the cycle and that Frenzy could be found at Red Alert's work station before recharge to pester his uncle for energon treats, they both knew that Red Alert would leave punishment detail to Soundwave in matters regarding his bondmate. It was simply the way of things.

A flicker of recognition in his gaze, a battle that had been raged so many times before, a pause, the tilting of his lips in a most unpleasant manner, and with wavering optics and a bitterly wrought mouth, Red Alert conceded to the other's wishes. "See to it then." And he turned away, with much effort and his jaw set firmly in determination he turned away, hands held tight and optics reflecting haunted depths. "Just go."

Blaster opened his mouth to apologize, to make amends for his rash behavior, a mistake made in a moment without thought, without consideration to the cost, but a sharp look from Soundwave stopped him short. Now was not the time. It may never be time.

Silently they left, Soundwave with his back held straight and his optics steady, and Blaster, who cast one last glance over his shoulder, glossa burning with words unsaid and spark aflame in regret. This was not what he'd wanted, not his way. Playful and impulsive by nature, but meaning well, he'd acted on a whim, a joke, a show of closeness and companionship to one who had been alone for so long, and now he was left to face the consequences of that mistake.

A dark mood settled over the red bot, neither sinister nor malevolent in nature, his frame heavy with tension and optics flickering softly, unseeing, his intakes long and slow, cooling his heated face. It seemed inevitable that he'd become ensnared in the despair of his heritage, the wrongness of it all, of the pain and the suffering and the innocence ripped away by greedy hands and cruel optics, but a hand on his shoulder stilled him and focused his unseeing optics.

"Fact: Red Alert will forgive you." And with that Soundwave turned away, posture just as straight and rigid as it'd always been, the sincerity in his optics now replaced with a dark hue, unreadable- if not for their bond.

Blaster nodded, subdued but not irreversibly so, yet still said not a word. There was simply nothing to say, nothing to be done now that all had been said and done and even his devotion to his fellow Mahikashi and his whispered apologies for the wrong done could not change events passed. It was simply the way of things.

Waiting, that was all he could do, all that could be done for sparks unmended and tears not yet cried when the spark is closed to gentle touches and the optics know not but fear.

It was just the way of things

* * *

><p>Cold, regal, beautiful, dangerous; there were many words to describe the eternal image of a noble bot perched high upon his tower's shining walls with a twist on his lips and a sharp tilt in his gaze as he looked upon the city below with veiled expressions, the light of the moon flowing down his chassis in streams of light and shadows kissing the supple curve of his cheek. Mirage embodied all of these, a grace and heritage forever intertwined with the pride of his upbringing, displayed in the build of his armor and the dignity of his bearing, but it was also profoundly sad, this image of a lone figure forever out of reach.<p>

He lifted the glass to his lips, his long, elegantly fingered hands poised perfectly despite the scratches upon his hands that had yet to heal, and sipped slowly the once sweet energon that now tasted of rust in his mouth, a foul reminder of all that had been lost on his glossia. His mood was bitter, his tensions strained in directions he'd never once considered.

Greed: insatiable. Pride: unbending. Power: unprecedented. The caste system: absolute in design and unbending. Born to the right to achieve glory and privilege, or fated to fade away in the shadows of history, nothing but a number on a statistics chart or a whispered plea unheard in the vast reaches of space.

Mirage had been born to privilege, in a time before the war when the energon was rich and all he need do is flick his wrist and many a bot would be at his beck and call. He had been given everything, and never once had the lives of those once below his notice concerned him beyond what services he could get from them.

Mahikashi. He'd never heard of them addressed in that context, but he'd known of their existence long before the word even existed, before he even knew what they'd truly been. Never once had he batted an optic when those said to be of the _wrong_ sort were thrown from the sanctuary of the tower walls to fend for themselves in a world unknown when the promise of power brought out the worst of the nobles.

Mirage's own social circle had benefited from the exile of such unfortunates, and at the time, it had never occurred to the noble to question such favorable incidences.

Now, with his youth long spoilt by the rages of war and terrors forever haunting his every memory- his optics weary with an age far beyond his vorns- the noble looks to the beauty of his tower room, the high ceilings and the finely crafted walls like a gilded cage crafted from the finest materials by the surest hands, and wonders what could have been if never he'd acquired these walls and one of those unfortunates long lost were sitting where he sits now, staring out at a world slowly rebuilding itself from the ashes.

A sudden curl of his lips, a glint of something lingering and excruciatingly mortal in his optics, like a smoldering flame under mounds of ash and soot, and the glass in his elegantly fingered hand is sent crashing to the far wall, splattering energon across the high risen walls of his room in a shock of color and radiance. Not a sound echoes the breaking of the glass, the spray of eerie luminescence, nothing but silence fills the void, mirrored by fathomless blue optics burning vividly in the shadows.

He looks back to the city below, and his face once more becomes expressionless, a living statue of unyielding control and perfection, optics dimming to a subtle shade.

His tower no longer seemed so beautiful, now that it was painted in the colors that brought it into being.

* * *

><p><em>When passions run high in a moment of senseless panic, when energon is shed from the innocent and the optics of the many are cold and unmoving with the tides of hate and fear that overcomes them, is it so that those who look upon the damned with hatred become the damned themselves?<em>

_Some tragedies are never forgotten, some sins never forgiven, death cannot be undone._

_We are Mahikashi._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Poor babies! Everyone seems to be suffering somehow in this story. I just hope it all turns out for the best, but only time will tell it seems. Anyway, now one can have another insight as to the problems regarding the Mahikashi.

**Please review and don't feel shy about pointing out mistakes…**


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